


To Come Home

by makingitwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable Sherlock, Alternate Reichenbach Continuation, Caring John, Dad John, DadJohn - Freeform, Even though he's a bit clueless, Family, Happy Ending, Kid Sherlock, KidSherlock, Love, M/M, No Incest, No Smut, Post-Reichenbach, We all love John, Why aren't there more of these?, de-aged Sherlock, just lots of father/son love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makingitwork/pseuds/makingitwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock is de-aged to his four year old self with his current brain. </p><p>He's adopted by John Watson.</p><p>Because honestly, there aren't enough KidSherlock, DadJohn fics</p><p>x</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pick Up

Sherlock can’t believe it.

What was even _the point_ of his growth spurt and the natural intimidation perks that came with it, if he was just going to be a child again? He glared up at Mycroft from his new height, while Mycroft barely contained himself from laughing. Crossing his arms in a huff, Sherlock turned to look in the mirror again. _Four._ God! He was four years old! Look at that. The unruly tousled dark curls, the pale skin, the _frailness_ of him was unbelievable. He’d been such a small child, his growth spurt too late to have any real impact in secondary school.

“Well, I remember you like this,” Mycroft smiles, lifting a lock of Sherlock’s hair away from his face, and Sherlock bats his hand away viciously.

“What is your plan then?” Sherlock sneers, trying not to blush at the pitch of his voice.

Mycroft doesn’t laugh at the pitch, it probably suits him. It would probably be funnier if Sherlock still had his original voice. “We’re- I’m going to tell John that you’re Sherlock’s child. I’m going to say that Moriarty killed your parents, and ask John to adopt you.”

Sherlock looks down at his tiny shoes “Why can’t we tell him the truth?”

“I don’t know. Why didn’t you tell him you were alive this whole time? It’s too late for regrets, Sherlock. This is what you chose. While it is…regrettable, that the Russian Laboratories got hold of the de-aging technology, you are very lucky that there were no side-effects.”

“Yeah, that’s what I am. Lucky.” But he followed Mycroft obediently, secretly eager to see John, to see his best friend.

…

…

…

John stared.

“Blimey.” He whispered, looking down at Sherlock “He…he looks just like him.” He turned to look back at Mycroft “So everything you said was true? This was his kid- but…who was the mother?”

“I have no idea, and no interest.” Mycroft hummed, looking incredibly bored “Will you take him?”

“Hi,” John whispered, kneeling down, to look at Sherlock “What’s your name?”

“Sherlock,”

John blinked “You…”

“The mother apparently had quite the attachment.”

“Right.” He swallowed thickly “And why aren’t you…why aren’t you taking him?”

“I’m a busy man, John, I wouldn’t be able to look after him the way he deserved. So…is that a yes? I would expect you clean up the apartment a bit. Child-proof and all,” his lips twitched amusedly “Set up a nice bedroom, make him dinner. It would be a big responsibility, I understand that. But honestly, I cannot think of anyone better than you for the job and-“

“What are you doing?” John asked, half-smiling “Are you trying to convince me? Because there’s no need. Of course I will, Mycroft. If…that’s okay with you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, unused to be quiet for so long, but aware he needed to sound about four years old “Yes…” he managed, coming across as shy, not like an adult trapped in a child’s body. And then Mycroft was gone, declaring he’d take care of all the paperwork. John hadn’t done much at first, he’d shown Sherlock around, before leading him to the kitchen, where he made bacon, and set down two plates, on the floor instead of the table. He sat a fair distance away from Sherlock. Sherlock ate like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“You like bacon, Sherlock?”

He nodded, mouthful.

John smiled, albeit sadly “Do you understand what’s happened to your family?”

“Didn’t like ‘em,” Sherlock manages “Knew they weren’t my real family.”

“Oh.” John’s a little relieved he doesn’t have to deal with grief, and he takes a bite of his own sandwich “Well…I’m John, you can…you need anything, you just ask me okay?” He smiles kindly “I’ll get you a room all set up and everything- tomorrow will be better, I promise, just a bit shocked. Do you have any questions?”

“Any juice?”

“Any jui-yeah, yeah,” he laughs fondly “Yeah, we’ve got juice.”

Sherlock finds himself exhausted at 5:30pm, damn his body. He gets tucked in, in John’s bed, blankets drawn up around him, John soothing back his curls till he’d fallen asleep. Sherlock marvelled a little. He was awe-struck that John still lived here, in 221B Baker Street, all of Sherlock’s stuff had been well kept, John looked the same, John hadn’t moved on without him. It was almost as though he had waited. And though there seemed a little weight loss, it appeared to match the appropriate level of grieving.

Sherlock _screamed._

Bolting upright from his nightmare, sweaty and crying, shaking, he took deep calming gulps of air, shuddering as he tried to right himself, but blubbering ceaselessly, when the door opened, and John appeared, clearly having been awoken. Sherlock watches through watery eyes as John rushes to him, and picks him up. It’s so shocking that Sherlock’s tears and hiccups stop, John has cocooned him in the warmth of the blankets, and has cuddled him up to his chest. Sherlock has never been held like this. He rests his head gently on John’s neck, as John strokes his fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he whispered “Hey, shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” and he starts pacing the room, murmuring nonsense into Sherlock’s ear, warm breath puffing over the nape of his neck, reassuring and kind “Once I went to the zoo, and I saw a giraffe…” and all that, pointless facts that Sherlock doesn’t need to know, just the low tone of John’s voice, Sherlock can feel the vibration all the way down to John’s chest.

And then he’s asleep.

When he wakes up, he’s buried in John’s chest, wrapped warm and protected, and Sherlock has never felt this safe in his life. He wriggles about a bit, unused to the contact and John startles awake, grinning. “You’re a wriggly little thing, aren’t you?” He smiles, smoothing Sherlock’s curls from his eyes.

The tiny consulting detective blinks at the casual touches. Is that what happens when you’re a child? He certainly doesn’t remember that with his family. Maybe John is overly affectionate. He pulls away, unsure, and looks up at John “You snore.”

“Sorry,” he grins sheepishly “Did I keep you up?”

No. “I’m hungry.”

“Come on then,” John stands, shrugging on a robe, and scoping Sherlock up into his arms, and then picking up a thinner blanket and draping it over the little boys shoulders. It’s a weird feeling, being carried. And Sherlock smiles to himself when he realises that John is the type to spoil a kid rotten. He’s about to voice his thoughts (and probably give himself away) when he stares at the living room.

It’s _clean._

All of Sherlock’s books have been put into a bookcase that he’s pretty sure never existed. All the test tubes and chemicals are gone, there are pillows on the sofa, and the coffee table is clear and polished, clean rugs on the floor, the kitchen looks…amazing. He rolls his eyes are the blue squares on the edges of the kitchen counter and the coffee table. Child proofing.

“I’m not exactly going to walk into it, am I?”

John sets him down at the table in the kitchen and smiles, as though Sherlock has just said something wonderful. “Of course not, you’re far too smart for that.”

Sherlock juts out his chin, crossing his arms “Obviously.”

John claps his hands, grinning brilliantly “Oh wow, you are just like-“ He cuts himself off, biting his tongue, but it’s more for Sherlock’s sake than his own. John seems okay to talk about his old best friend, though it’s still a sore spot. Still the reason for the dark marks under his eyes. “What would you like for breakfast, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to say tea and toast, but then changes his mind. He doesn’t want tea and toast he wants… “Cookie Crunch?”

John had stocked up on cereal. He pours some into a bowl, fills it with milk, and then serves it with a silver spoon. Breakfast is…oddly enjoyable. Sherlock’s eyes stay fixed on John, who reads the newspaper, before realising Sherlock is watching him as though he’s the most interesting thing on the face of the planet. “Hello,” he smiles, reaching across and bopping Sherlock on the nose. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in surprise, “what would you like to do today, huh? We could set up your bedroom? Go out and buy some clothes, shoes…” he smiles “Shampoo?”

Sherlock laughs, but it comes out more like a giggle, so he hurriedly finishes the rest of his milk. But then John’s hand is smoothing through Sherlock’s hair.

“You’ve got a beautiful laugh,” John murmurs, kissing his forehead “Never hide it.”

Sherlock’s toes curls with affection and pride.

He grows to like being carried by John, and now as they walk through the shop, Sherlock quite comfortable on John’s back, as the older man pushes the trolley along. Sherlock likes making John laugh. He points things out about people, whispering them into John’s ear, and John squeezes his ankle with his free hand, expressing how brilliant Sherlock is. Sherlock likes this. It’s like impressing John all over again, and it never gets old.

The rest of the day, the two of them fix up Sherlock’s room, TARDIS Blue bed sheets, a night-light, a rug, some stuffed toys (much to Sherlock’s amusement), a poster of the periodic table (much to John’s amusement) and so many clothes. Shampoo, hair brush, toothbrush, special toothpaste, slippers, a waterproof and heatproof watch. Books.

But bath time is where Sherlock gets nervous. It just feels so _weird._ But of course, this is John, and he simply hauls Sherlock up, and places him into the just right bubbly hot water, and throws Sherlock’s old clothes in the washing, before rolling up his sleeves. John kneels beside the tub and laughs at the look on Sherlock’s face, scooping up bubbles on one finger and bopping them onto Sherlock’s nose “You’re looking at me like you’ve never been given a bath in your life.”

“I can’t remember the last time I was given a bath,” he says honestly, watching as John fills the jug with water, and instructs him to keep his head tilted back, and then places his hand above Sherlock’s eyes.

“Don’t fidget, okay? Sherlock.”

“Fine!”

It’s nice, to have someone wash him. John is soothing, and methodical, rubs gentle patterns with shampoo and conditioner into each strand of Sherlock’s hair, covered him in soap, rubs behind his ears, before cleaning him till he’s sure he’ll squeak.

“You heated the towel?” Sherlock blinks, as he’s dried softly but thoroughly, hair ruffled “I never would have thought to do that.”

John rolls his eyes “Feel better?”

He nods, because he does. He hasn’t felt this clean for a long time. He doesn’t say that he could dress himself, because he’s missed John, and it feels so nice to be the centre of his attention, as he’s put into some cotton sheep covered blue pyjamas, and tucked into bed. Only when John goes to leave, Sherlock finds himself desperate for him not too. “No story?” He asks, and John turns

“Of course there’s a story, Sherlock,” he grins “What would you like?”

“Um…that one.”

John laughs, loud and true, and it gets Sherlock giggling too. “Right, the Evolution of Species, the perfect bedtime story,” and John lies on top of the blankets and reads. Sherlock must fall asleep for a bit, because then he sees John standing up.

“Hey,” he whines sleepily, yawning “Wher y’’ goin’?”

John sighs, but can’t help his smile. He sets the book down and crawls back in to bed “Only tonight. You’ve got to learn to sleep by yourself,” and yet he kisses Sherlock’s forehead, and cradles the boy tight.

Sherlock falls asleep in record time and his last thought is;

_I could get used to this._


	2. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I don't want to keep ruining his life, despite the fact that I'm only discovering how great it can be the second time round."

It’s wonderful living with John, Sherlock decides in his second week.

John always wakes him up at 8:30, carries him downstairs, where they eat breakfast, and read the news. It always makes John laugh to see a four year old reading the newspaper. And then Sherlock is instructed to go upstairs and get dressed and brush his teeth, while John cleans up.

Then John brushes Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock keens into the touch like he’s been starved of it. And then they go out, sometimes for aimless walks, other times, after a lot of begging and pleading, John will request a case from Lestrade, take it home, and let Sherlock look at it. Not some of the graphic pictures, despite his protests that he’s seen much worse. Then they spend the day either solving the case, or writing up a previous one on John’s blog. It’s intriguing to watch him write. Sherlock doesn’t know why he never realised it before. John’s a genuinely _good_ writer.

They go out for lunch, or John makes something healthy, and then John goes in to work during the afternoon. Often bringing Sherlock with him, the secretary doesn’t mind watching him. Sherlock just texts his contact (through the secret phone John doesn’t know about)

Then, John collects him into his arms, wraps him up in his coat, and walks home. Sometimes Sherlock wants to run home, and John grips his hand as they do it. Then its dinner, bedtime bath, story time, and sleep.

Sherlock can’t remember ever being so content.

“Hey,” John whispers one morning, and Sherlock stretches, blinking, frowning when he sees John. It’s too early, is his first thought, and then he sees the present. “Got you something,”

A present.

It’s a present. Sherlock finds himself giddy with excitement as he takes the long rectangular box, and rips off the wrapping paper. He grins, it’s a chemistry set! Sure, it’s a child proof one, but it has a real Bunsen burner with safety guard, test tubes, a few metals, and since John seems to have hidden his old one, this is magnificent. He leaps across and hugs him tightly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

And so the entire day went with Sherlock doing god knows what with the chemistry set, as John sorted out all the bills, humming thoughtfully over the sudden influx of money into his bank account. He wants to be noble about it, really he does, but he needs the money right now, he’s only working in the clinic part time, and he wants to spoil Sherlock rotten and give him everything he wants, and he lives in such an expensive part of London, yet he doesn’t want to move.

There’s the cracking sound of glass, and the smell of something burning, and John tears out of the kitchen, grabbing Sherlock into his arms and jumping onto the sofa, when he looks back, all he sees is a broken, burnt test tube. He sighs in relief, kissing Sherlock’s temple. “You’re crazy, you know that?” he whispered, holding him close, as Sherlock looks up

“You worry about me ceaselessly,”

John pulls back but doesn’t let go “Of course I worry about you, you’re precious.”

Should those words mean as much to Sherlock as they do? His childhood wasn’t bad, but he’d been too stuck up and spoilt and eager to grow up to realise that. But now, now things are simple, and he can appreciate life without Moriarty threatening his friends, he’s realising what it feels like to be cherished- and more importantly, he’s understanding what it feels like to be cherished by _John._ Oh, he’s sure John cared about him when he was old age, but now, John treats him like he’s the centre of the world, with no manipulation or games, just love and trust.

“Don’t cry,” John whispered, peppering reassuring kisses along Sherlock’s forehead “My brave, beautiful boy don’t cry, never cry,” he holds him close, and walks to the window, pushing the curtain aside, and they look down at the people below. “Look at them,” he whispers into Sherlock’s ear “How they hustle and bustle about like bees. Look at that woman there, hm? The one with the suitcase, what do you see?”

“She’s late for a business conference because her luggage almost got lost in Birmingham.” He sniffles, and John holds him tightly.

“You’re a little marvel, you know that? You know that I love you?”

Sherlock clings to John, sobbing into his shirt, because everything is perfect. He’s been given a second chance at life, and this time, _this time_ he’s going to do it right.

…

…

…

“We’re working on a reversal,” Mycroft drawls, and Sherlock looks up at him, unsure how to react “I’ve got all my best people working on it.”

“There’s no rush.”

Mycroft’s mouth turns down in disapproval “You can’t honestly like being a child again? You loathed it the first time round.”

“I guess now I’m seeing the perks. Thinking of it as an experiment.”

“Well don’t get too comfortable.” There’s a moment of silence, before Mycroft’s voice comes out again, more gentle this time “I only fear what this will do to John. When I have to take you away from him. He’s a…good man, Sherlock. Those are few these days, and we have ruined his life quite enough. This shall be the last time, I think.”

Sherlock looked down at his shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it wasn't longer  
> x


	3. Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to fathers everywhere

Sherlock doesn't like her.

He should be in bed, but instead, he's peaking his head around the door as John is pressed into the wall by some woman called Cindy, who's attacking his jaw with kisses, before sliding gracefully to her knees, and reaching for his belt. John grabs her hands, lips red and cheeks flushed. "Not here," he whispers, eyes flickering to the ceiling "My son's asleep upstairs."

_My son._

Sherlock looks through his tousled curls and can't help himself. He gives off a little choked gasp and knows in that moment that he _loves_ John. More than he's ever loved anything in his life, with every fibre of every piece in his soul, and he doesn't care if that makes him weak, or if it goes against his logical thought function, all that matters is he loves John. He would give his life, he would do anything to keep this man alive and happy. John looks up at the sound, thinking perhaps Sherlock is about to have one of his nightmares, and so politely escorts Cindy out. Sherlock has to run back to his room and jump under the covers to that everything looks as it should when John walks in.

The door pushes open, and a sliver of gold light leaks in "Sherlock?" he whispers "You awake?"

"Yes daddy," he nods against the pillow.  

There. He's said it now, and he watches the Doctor/Writer/Lieutenant/Father just cross the room and sit on the bed, hand brushing the curls way from Sherlock's eyes. "You can't hide things from me, you know," John whispers, and for one horrible, horrible moment, Sherlock thinks John knows about the de-aging, but John continues "I know you saw that woman down there." Sherlock lets out a breath, eyes wide and on John. "You know that she's nothing to you, don't you?"

Sherlock keens into the gentle touch on his forehead "Love you," he whispers, and John kisses his forehead

"Love you too, Sherlock. Want anything to drink? Some warm milk?"

"Stay," Sherlock manages, fingers curling around John's thumb, and he looks so small, that John does.

...

...

...

"He's brilliant, Sherlock," John whispers to the grave stone, touching the shiny marble, with the weight of a thousand burning suns on his shoulder, forcing them down in a desolate manner "He's just like you, so brilliant, and loving, and beautiful, and..." John gives a little laugh "Not at all gracious, and such a know-it-all." His voice is fond, and exasperated. Before his face becomes sombre. "I don't know if you wanted me raising him, Sherlock, but I am...I am doing my best, and I do love him," John looks up to the sky, eyes rimming red "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help when you needed it. I should have..." a controlled, steady breath "I'm sorry I forced you to...to jump, Sherlock, I should have been there, and I wasn't, and I'm sorry."

"But it wasn't your fault," Sherlock whispers to himself, tears slipping down his own cheeks as he watches with a dawning horror that John blames himself for everything. Sherlock has no idea how he once sat on a bench and watched John grieve over him with only the cruel feeling of smug satisfaction and slight regret. Now, he feels terrible, a horrible drawing instead of him that says John blames himself and it's all Sherlock's fault. The now little boy runs to the car, and John is there a moment later, eyes no longer red, no sign of crying. He hides things well.

"Hey little one," John murmurs, turning twisting the key "You got your seatbelt on?"

Sherlock pouts "No." And John buckles him in with a smile

"You hungry?"

Sherlock isn't hungry, but he knows John needs something to do, so he nods. And soon they're sitting in pizza hut, as John laughs.

"I think you're supposed to eat the pizza, Sherlock, not make a tower out of it."

Sherlock looks up from his experiment. Sauce all over his chin and fingers, as the tower wobbles precariously on the plate. "But I'm not hungry."

"Then why did you say you were?"

"Why did you order me a whole pizza?"

John tries to be serious for a moment, before laughing and rolling his eyes. "Cheeky little chap, aren't you?" he says fondly, and Sherlock beams up at him. It different, looking at John's face from a new angle. When he was an adult, he was always looking down and John seemed more delicate and frail, but now, as he looks _up._ John seems strong, and protective. Sherlock can see the lines in his face, some of them worry and stress lines, others laughter lines, others just signs of old age. His hair is thick and dark blond, but ever so slightly greying, his eyes still vivid and light blue, his lips thin and soft. His cream jumper makes him seem non-offending, but Sherlock just knows he can trust this man, _his father,_ to take care of him forever.

"Daddy," Sherlock calls, and it slips out of him so naturally, he can't help but think that this is how his relationship with John should always have been. His mouth is full of pizza, and John leans across to wipe Sherlock's mouth with a tissue. "Can we adopt a dog?"

John seems to think about it, before nodding. Sherlock can practically see the wheels turning in John's mind, and knows that John's final thoughts are _he needs a companion, it'll teach him responsibility, and it will distract him from trying to burn down the apartment repeatedly._ But Sherlock wants another chance at Redbeard. "Yes," he murmurs, eyes full of affection "I think a dog's a very good idea."

...

...

...

The golden retriever takes such a shine to Sherlock. It loves him, but he's also smart, so Sherlock gives it a stern look, and it kneels before him. He sits down and plays with Red as John sorts out the supplies and paperwork. The dog lies across his lap, looking up at him as Sherlock brushes his fingers through it's fur. It then turns to look at John, and then back to Sherlock with big questioning eyes. "That's John," Sherlock states happily "That's our dad. I'll tell you a secret," he leans down, scratching behind the dogs ear "I'm really 28."

The dog yaps, tail wagging excitedly now that he's in on the secret.

John- who has been great the entire day- has a problem when Sherlock says he wants Red to sleep in his bed. "I'm a Doctor, you know Sherlock," he says with a sigh, as he smoothed the sponge over Sherlock's bare shoulders in the bath "You're young, and I don't want you to have any breathing problems, plus look how small you are." John gave him a scanning over and Sherlock crossed his arms indignantly

"I'm not small!" He yelled

John's mouth turned down in disapproval "Now Sherlock," he said warningly "No yelling." And he starts smoothing soap onto Sherlock's forearms, getting rid of any trace of chemicals Sherlock lets slide down his arms.

Sherlock glares at him. He doesn't like being told what to do. He's _never_ liked being told what to do, and now John is his father he thinks he has the right? Because he doesn't. "He's sleeping in my bed!" Sherlock orders, and if he was standing, he would try to stamp his feet.

"I said no, Sherlock. I tried explaining it, but you're not listening and-"

" _I hate you!"_ Sherlock screams, splashing at the water with his palms. And then there's a pause. He looks up to see why John isn't saying anything, but John suddenly looks very pale and withdrawn. Sherlock shrinks back as he realises what he's said, and he almost wishes John would yell at him. Instead, John washes him in silence, dries him with a warm towel, gets Sherlock in his pyjamas, and tucks him in, all without a word. "Daddy," Sherlock whispers, as John heads for the door "Aren't you gonna read me a story?"

John doesn't meet his eyes, simply rubs his temples "I'm a little tired tonight, Sherlock. Tomorrow though, I promise." He closes the door properly, and Sherlock can hear him guiding Red away from the door, and Sherlock doesn't even care. He feels _terrible._ He didn't mean that. He could never mean that. It takes him hours to begin to drift off, when he hears the gentle hum of voices downstairs. He opens the door, and Red greets him immediately, and they both head downstairs quietly.

"I'm not a father, Mycroft," John says softly, shaking his head "I love him to pieces, but...he needs someone who knows what they're doing. I'm relying on money from you, I...I don't know how to make him happy. And I'm still...I know it's been a long time, but I'm still grieving over your brother."

Mycroft stares at John levelly, before his eyes flicker momentarily to the left, staring right into Sherlock's eyes. Mycroft's in take of breath isn't audible, but Sherlock knows what it looks like. Mycroft stares at his little brother, the tiny little body, the crazy brown hair, how his arm is slung over the golden dog, and Mycroft can read it in his eyes how much he loves John. "John, Sherlock would have wanted you to look after him. You're a doctor, and a good man, and the money? He's my nephew too, besides, if you saw what the British Government was hiding away, you'd know what I was giving you, was nothing but a few specs of gold from an ocean full of diamonds."

John smiles, and retires to his room. Mycroft and Sherlock don't move, but Mycroft speaks aloud.

"You're grown attached, brother-mine."

"I don't want to go back."

"I can see that much." Mycroft drawled "You feel that way now, but you'd have to keep up this charade for John, you'd have to go to school, unless you told him the truth. And as you got older, you might let something slip. You might reference an old case. A thousand things could go wrong."

"I want to tell him," Sherlock whispered "I want to tell him, Mycroft. But I don't want him to treat me differently because of it."

"My little brother," Mycroft stood and walked over to Sherlock, kneeling before him, looking forlorn "I'll never see you with a wife, or a child."

Sherlock hugged his brother, laughing "I was never going to do any of those things, Mycroft."

Mycroft chuckled; "I know."

...

...

...

"I'm sorry, daddy," Sherlock sniffed, crawling into John's lap "I didn't mean it."

John looks amused "I know that," he says bemusedly "Of course I know that, because you love me almost as much as I love you,"

Sherlock ducks his head shyly, burrowing into John's chest "You'll read me a story today?"

Red barks eagerly, and John pets him "Yeah, and Red can sleep in your room for one night. Not on the bed thought. _Beside_ the bed."

"With you there too?"

John laughs "Just this once."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback for this story so far has been wonderful and I love you so much.  
> x


	4. Mary Mary Quite Contrary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School life

The first week of school had been nearly intolerable.

Sherlock had been bundled into a red jumper and grey trousers, John packing him a lunch of assorted fruits and a ham and salad sandwich with chocolate bar. Sherlock had been sceptical. His first shot at school had been Mulberry Academy, a tall, dark, old and traditional building with standards impossibly high, and one of the most expensive private schools in the country. This school _Anson_ was not private, was not traditional, and was rather a lot more colourful.

But there was _one_ upside.

His teacher, Miss Morstan. With short, silky blonde hair, she dressed in colour, smart yet casual clothing, and realised rather quickly that Sherlock was more intelligent than the rest of the class. So she had approached him one day, and offered him a chemistry text book in place of the colouring pencils, and Sherlock had beamed up at her.

He had two ‘friends’. Molly, who he didn’t really consider a friend, yet he trusted her, and she followed him around, as well as Marcus, a tough boy who marvelled at Sherlock’s neatly packed lunch, and Sherlock finds that a few pieces of mango is enough to stop teasing from jealous school children.

“Miss Morstan,” Sherlock chimes, as the 3:00pm bell chimes, and all the other students start filing out “My daddy’s gonna be late picking me up, can I wait in here?”

Mary smiles at him “Of course you can, Sherlock, sweetheart,” She cleans up a few bits and pieces, wiping paint from her hands, before she realising Sherlock is just sitting there. She gives him a curious look, before grinning knowingly “Would you like me to get Operation out while we wait for your dad?”

Sherlock’s curls bounce as he nods.

And then 20 minutes later John steps in.

Sherlock sees it.

How Mary’s pupils dilate, how a rosy flush rises up her cheeks. “Mr Watson,” she manages “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,”

John doesn’t really react to Mary, he’s far too focused on Sherlock “Yeah, great to meet you,” he murmurs politely “You okay, Sherlock? Not get too bored?”

Sherlock shakes his head, rushing over to John, letting himself get carried on his hip. “We played Operation!”

John smiles “You love operation,”

“Miss Morstan got tired of losing at chess.”

That gets John’s attention. He looks up at Mary with new eyes “You played chess with him?” he marvels “More than once? That takes commitment. When he thrashed me the first time, I vowed never again.”

Mary lights up at the attention “He’s a brilliant boy.”

“Yeah,” John’s arm tightens around Sherlock “I’m John, by the way,”

“Mary,” she crosses her arms “So uh…what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a Doctor,”

“Wow. And a single father.”

John tilts his head, as though he wants to find out more, and then he seems to realise he’s flirting, as his son rests in his arms. “I hope to see you again soon,” he says instead, sincerely, and takes Sherlock home. “Your teacher,” John says, as he holds a set of test tubes, passing them to Sherlock as requested “Is she nice to you?”

“She’s smart.”

Huh. That’s saying something. “Is she…a _Miss_ or a _Mrs?”_

“She likes you,”

John tries not to preen “I had hoped so.” He admitted, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own after setting down the test tubes “Do you like her?”

Sherlock thinks. He wants John to be happy, and to be honest, he does like Mary. So he nods.

John examines him for a moment, making sure, before smiling wildly “Oh that’s great, Sherlock! I’m not saying anything will come of it, but if it does…” he looks off for a moment, before snapping back to Sherlock “Anyway, I suppose I best start making you some dinner, yeah?”

“Yes please,” he smiles, and as soon as John is round the corner, he whips off the safety glasses.

“Put them on, little genius,” John’s voice drifts, and Sherlock groans, hiding his smile, as he slides them back onto his face.

…

…

…

His violin was too big for him.

Sherlock pouts, trying to angle the instrument under his chin, because it’s bee so longer since he’s played. But his arms are too short, and his fingers too stubby. John walks in, and freezes. “Hey,” he says quietly, lifting the violin out of Sherlock’s hands “This isn’t for you to play with Sherlock, okay? It belonged to a very good friend of mine, and I need to keep it safe.” John placed it back into the case, clicking it shut.

“But…” Sherlock stared at him “I want to play one.”

John shot him a smile “You’re so much like-“ He cuts himself off, and Sherlock rushes to hug him. Arms tight around John’s waist, as John strokes his fingers through his hair “We’ll buy you one tomorrow, huh? One suited perfectly for you.”

Sherlock’s favourite time of the day is after school. Where John carries him home, and fixes him a snack, while he shifts through the facts of a case, with Red snuggled into his side. And then John sits on the sofa, filling in some patient files, and Sherlock sits comfortably on his lap, Red on his lap, while the television spouts gentle drivel, and the evening starts to come about, John will make dinner. Sherlock never appreciated John’s cooking before, but no, he relishes each and every bite. Legs swinging, he wonders if there’s anything John _can’t_ do.

“Sherlock,” Miss Morstan says to him one bright early morning, while all the other children and frolicking about in the rain, and Marcus was ill and Molly was in the bathroom, Sherlock sat at a table, plotting a scatter graph. “Would you mind if…if I was to start dating your father?”

Sherlock half-smiles at her “You’ve been dating for three months.”

Mary laughs “I knew you knew. I told him that, but he didn’t listen to me. Thinks he’s really sneaky,”

So Mary comes over to the apartment. It’s nice, Sherlock decides eventually, having her there. She helps John peel the vegetables, and ruffles Sherlock’s hair. She doesn’t intrude, and yet fits in. She doesn’t insist to sit next to John, rather encourages Sherlock to sit in his lap. She feeds Red, and always takes Sherlock’s side when it comes to having to eat parsnip. Disgusting vegetables. When she starts staying nights, it’s really no surprise. She makes Sherlock smoothies for breakfast, and goes out for a jog each morning. And John seems happier, so…Sherlock isn’t going to complain. This is his family, coming together.

“Sherlock, sweet heart,” Mary yawns, padding into the kitchen in her dressing gown “What are you doing up so early?”

“I have to check on my skin cells. I fed them to larvae.” He chimes, leaning over a set of petri dishes and scribbling away. Mary blinks, pouring herself some tea, before laughing. She drinks her tea, encouraging Sherlock’s explanations with gentle nods of her head, and when she’s done, she scoops him up and brings him into their bedroom. Saturday morning light is streaming through the windows, and John’s hair is spiked up everywhere, making him look younger, as he sleeps. Mary closes the door, and sets Sherlock on the white bed, getting in after him.

“Just an hours more sleep,” she coos, and Sherlock wants to point out the fact that she just had tea. _Tea._ As in, caffeine. But he’s cuddled between the two of them, and he happily acquiesces.

John groans at the movement, eyes sliding open a crack, he smiles, drawing his arm around both of them, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead “’leep,” he murmurs, and Mary smiles, brushing a curl over Sherlock’s ear, and she too falls asleep.

The tiny brunette can hear their heartbeats, and without a thought to the future, drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so short :(  
> x


	5. Finding Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So John finds out, Sherlock finds out.

Sherlock gets sick.

He wakes up coughing his heart out, face flushed with sweat, shaking in his bed. And he does the only thing that comes to mind. He _cries._ Lord, how he cries. He screams for his daddy, but John doesn’t come.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mary cries, rushing into the room, flicking on the light, and Sherlock’s eyes burn, but she continues flinging open the curtains “Hey, hey, your daddy’s gone to work already, baby.” She brushes her fingers over his forehead, frowning “Oh goodness, you’ve got a fever, darling,” she lifts Sherlock into her arms, carrying him into the bathroom, where she gives him a quick, warm shower, before dressing him in fresh clothes, and then sits him on her and John’s bed, before rushing downstairs. Sherlock does appreciate being clean, but he just snuggles into John’s side of the bed, breathing the scent of him in, coughing weakly.

But then Mary’s back, carrying him downstairs and Sherlock can’t help but smile at what he sees. The sofa’s been pulled out, and there are pillows and cushions everywhere. A neatly laid out tray for Sherlock, with porridge, fruit, toast and tea, cereal, and a TV series is playing. Sherlock starts to giggle when he sees it, he _loves_ House. So that’s how they spend the day, Mary snuggled beside him, feeding him an assortment of food, taking his temperature, and murmuring endearments when he sleeps.

And then John comes home.

Mary’s asleep, so Sherlock wriggles out, and rushes to John. “I’m sick, daddy,” he whines, and Johns scoops him up, setting him on the kitchen counter. He pushes something into Sherlock’s ear, and then makes him open his mouth, before shining a light in his eyes.

“A bug.” John looks unhappy “There’s isn’t much I can do, Sherlock,” he mutters, stroking his hands through Sherlock’s hair “How the cough though? I can give you something to ease the cough?” Sherlock nods happily, the medicine doesn’t even taste bad. John lifts him into his arms, and smiles. “Mary treat you well then, huh?” he laughs at the get up in the living room. “Sherlock, you know House is unrealistic.”

“You weren’t here,” Sherlock says quietly into John’s neck “I wanted you.”

“My baby boy,” John whispers, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple “I’m here now. I’m always here if you need me.”

 _You always were._ Sherlock thinks happily. John has always been there for him. So he lets himself get snuggled between John and Mary, as they watch House. When John falls asleep, Mary strokes her fingers over John’s forehead, and Sherlock rests on John’s chest. There’s something box shaped in John’s pocket, and Sherlock knows it’s a ring.

…

…

…

“Don’t you look smart,” Mycroft drawled, motioning to Sherlock’s little suit, as the wedding after party was in full swing. “I imagine you’re particularly pleased?”

“Very.” Sherlock beams “This second chance at life has been very eye-opening.”

Mycroft nods. “Just so you know, little brother-“ he says _little_ with a certain glee and Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes “The machinery is all fixed. And I…I think you should revert back to your 28 year old self, to tell John everything.” Sherlock stares in shock. Mycroft struggles to explain “You owe him that much Sherlock, and…and think about how happy it would make him to know that his best friend didn’t really die. Imagine how…I mean, of course, he’d be angry, but overall-“

“I thought you were all for me getting out of his life!”

“Well it appears you’re not his son, so that’s not happening any time soon, little Sherlock Watson.”

Sherlock feels a burst of pride at the name.

So he nods.

…

…

…

John’s cleaning the kitchen counter, gold wedding band secure on his finger. Sherlock steps into the room. It feels wrong being at this height again, too much too fast. “John,” he whispers, his voice is too deep. John whirls around, eyes wide

“Sherlock!” He gasps, rushing forward, only to pull himself to a halt, eyes full of distrust “What-“

“I faked my death, John.”

Silence, John’s fingers curling into fists, anger radiating off him in waves, as Sherlock feels tears prick in his eyes and he rushes to explain.

“They were going to kill you. Kill everyone, I couldn’t- I _couldn’t._ I had to…I had to protect you, and it was too risky to make contact. I’m so sorr-“

“I can’t even.” John covers his face with his hands, drawing in shuddering breaths “You have a son, Sherlock? Do you know that?”

“No.” Sherlock whispers, and this suddenly feels very very wrong, it feels as though he’s ripping everything away from John, not making him feel any better. He wishes that Mycroft was here. Why isn’t Mycroft doing this? Why is it him? “John, there’s this…technology, the government has, and…Russia got a hold of it- I don’t know, it’s all very politically orientated, Mycroft knows more than I do. But…I deaged me, and then…reaged me. I’m…I’m _Sherlock and Sherlock.”_ He laughs chokingly “John-“

“No.” John whispers, shaking his head, “No, you ca-“ He pushes past Sherlock, as though to head up to his sons room, only to remember that Sherlock was with Mycroft- Sherlock was with Mycroft. Oh. John’s whole world is crumbling around him, and he’s standing on an island all alone. Even Mary isn’t here.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice sounds far away, as John stares at the stairs, seeing nothing. “I’m so sorry.”

“Have I ever meant anything to you?” John whispers, and Sherlock flinches hard. “Have I ever meant a single thing? Or am I just-“ he tips his head back, eyes stinging with tears “Just something to manipulate. Pull this string and see how I dance. Do you laugh with your brother about me? About how stupid I am? I bet you do.” The earth is cracking, the sun beats down. “Is this part of some experiment? You…you become my best friend, and then rip that away from me. You become my _son_ and then tell me you never existed-“

“John please,” Sherlock grabbing his shoulders, but nothing matters anymore, because no one can reach him where he is. “I meant everything. Please-“

“Please.” John grits out, his voice pained “Please leave before I do something I’ll regret.”

…

…

…

As soon as Sherlock gets back to Mycroft, he asks to be deaged. And when he’s four years old, he _cries._ Mycroft holds him, tries to make him laugh about how Sherlock’s acting more like a four year old now that he’s mentally 28, compared to when he really was 4. But that just makes Sherlock wail even more.

And then a week later, Mycroft takes Sherlock back to 221B Baker Street, and as soon as the door opens, John is there, and he pulls his little boy in for the tightest hug. “ _Don’t ever leave me again.”_ He hisses, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock could almost weep for joy.

His John, his perfect, perfect John.

“It’s much easier to forgive you when you’re all tiny and adorable.” John grinned, as Sherlock sat surrounded with bubbles in the bathtub. His curls straightened by the water, hanging down in his neck. Mary knocked on the door, poking her head round

“I make apple pie,” she beamed, “Hurry up. I want to eat it while watching The X Factor.”

John and Sherlock made a face.

She laughed “Look at my boys,” she clapped fondly, before disappearing.

John and Sherlock burst out laughing.

Mary didn’t know. Mary wouldn’t know, because it didn’t matter. Sherlock was their son. Sherlock was a four year old boy they had adopted, and that they loved with all their hearts.

“I missed you,” Sherlock whispered, stroking his fingers through Red’s fur, as the golden retriever licked his face happily.

“Sherlock, don’t feed Red any pie.” John’s voice drifted from the living room and Sherlock rolled his eyes

“I _know,_ daddy.”

“How much have you already given her?”

“Only a spoonful. Or three.”

Sherlock loved it. Now there was no pressure, or stress, and during these summer holidays, he just lay in bed sometimes, basking in how perfect his life was now.

“How’s my brilliant little detective this morning?” John asked cheerily, padding into the kitchen, clad in his pyjamas, hair spikey and sleep ruffled. Sherlock was sat at the kitchen counter, little legs swinging as he ate a bowl of cocopops, and scanned over a case file.

“Two men. A car backfires, and one of them dies.”

John hummed thoughtfully into his tea, peeking at the file “You haven’t been up too early?” he strokes a thumb over his four years old neck and Sherlock keened into the touch. He had been scared. So afraid that after he told John the truth, that these little touches would disappear. But John hadn’t merged the two Sherlock’s together like that. The Sherlock who was his best friend, was very much gone, but all of the important parts of him, were crammed into Sherlock the son. And now Sherlock was allowed to look at gruesome crime scene photos, and John allowed him to view video recordings.

“No,” he chimes obediently, giggling when John brushes his fingertips over his collar.

“So…” John frowns, resting his chin on Sherlock’s curls “Why was the guy just standing in a field?”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s body thrums with excitement “Isn’t it cool?”

“Very.”

But things can't continue being perfect.

The day after Sherlock's 5th birthday, John and Mary fight.

"What's her name, John?!" She yells, tossing a pillow onto the sofa that she's picked up from the floor

"Mary- Mary, please, there is no one else." He insists "I don't know what I have to say to convince you. Lisa is a friend, an old friend, I was consoling her-"

"With your mouth?!"

"She kissed me!" John yells, before minding himself. He takes a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his hands "Listen," he says, much more controlled "It's Sherlock's birthday, I want us to put this fight on hold, and go out there-"

"Don't think you know what's better for him than I do." She hisses, eyes swimming with tears "He's my son too-"

"God Mary, I know that," he whispers "I swear to you, nothing happened with Lisa and I-"

Mary slaps John. _Hard._

Sherlock didn't have to be a genius to see what would happen next. John _hates_ physical violence. Of any kind. It's just a no go with him, and it doesn't matter if it's a man doing it to a woman, or a woman doing it to a man, it is never tolerated. He steps back, looking at Mary with cold eyes. "Pack your things." He ordered "And go."

Mary seems to realise she’s done something wrong, and maybe she sees that John really wasn’t doing anything with Lisa, she opens her mouth to apologise, but John isn’t in the mood to hear it. Mary rushes out into the hallway- right into Sherlock. “Sherlock,” she whispers brokenly, and John’s head snaps around. Mary looks close to tears “Honey, I-“

Sherlock hugs her.

She kisses his cheek, before rushing to her bedroom. John rubs his face tiredly “I’m sorry, Sherlock-“

“Go to her.” Sherlock insists “She’s sorry.”

John ruffles Sherlock hair on the way out.

It’s a good thing they do make up too. Because three weeks later, Sherlock deducts that Mary is pregnant.

He isn’t sure how he feels about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I know that parents don't have favourite kids (but I think we all know that John loves Sherlock more, even if it just by a fraction of a millionth of a millimetre)


	6. Working It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft contemplates retirement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

“What do you think-“ John shifts Sherlock slightly on his lap, pointing to a house in the magazine “About that one?”

It’s perfect. The perfect, picturesque fairy tale house in a quiet little village. Big, and a pale lilac, with silver ivy growing up the sides, a large front garden, and a large back garden, even a little pond down the end. Sherlock leans into the warmth of John’s chest. “Why do we need to move?”

“Space, sweetheart,” John rests his chin on Sherlock’s curls “Don’t you wanna be able to play with your little sister out in the garden? The both of you chasing after Red and solving crimes?”

Sherlock smiles at the domestic scene John’s imagining, but deep inside, he’s…jealous. Little _Aria_ as they wanted to call her, would be…she’d be John’s real child. What was Sherlock? Than some insane friend who had forced his way into John’s life. “Yeah, I guess,” he grumbled, and John turned the page, to reveal another large house, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed “How are you affording this?”

“A little thing called savings.” John chuckles, setting Sherlock down on the counter, as Mary wades in. 8 months pregnant, she smiles

“How are my boys?”

“Good,” John and Sherlock chime in unison, and John wraps his arms around her “You shouldn’t be up and about. Sit down, what do you need? Tea? I’ll make you some tea,”

Mary’s blue eyes twinkle, and she winks at Sherlock “Daddy’s freaking out for a doctor, isn’t he sweetie?”

Sherlock giggles, and John rolls his eyes, placing a hand on Mary’s stomach, feeling the tiny almost constant kicking. “Come on, Sherlock, come feel your little sister kicking.” Sherlock hopped off the counter, and nearly skipped to Mary, who placed her hand on the back of his neck, as he felt little Aria Watson test out her muscles. Sherlock had never been a big brother before. Aside from the jealousy, there was some…novelty to the idea.

Aria was born a month and a half later.

A tiny little thing, and Sherlock analysed her. She had Mary’s nose, but John’s eyes, and Sherlock was crushed. This…this _baby_ who had known John all of thirty seconds had a connection, a distinction, people in the street would like at her, and they would know that John was her father. But Sherlock was all dark eyes and dark hair and stark features. “What’s wrong?” John asked curiously, before lifting Sherlock onto the hospital bed, so he could snuggle into Mary’s side and peak down at his sister. She squealed when she saw Sherlock, reaching helplessly towards his hair, and Sherlock smiled. Maybe she wasn’t _so_ bad.

“You must be Sherlock.” Came a voice, and Sherlock spun around, he’d only popped out to get Mary water, to see a Lieutenant of some sort, obviously here to congratulate John, but only to be here for a moment if the state of his hair was anything to go by. Sherlock cocked his head

“Yes…”

The Lieutenant chuckled delightedly, ruffling Sherlock’s hair “Oh you’re John’s lad alright, I’d recognise that position anywhere.”

Sherlock looked down and realised he had crossed his arms. He never used to do that. He found himself bubbling with pride. Could it be? He was like John? He had heard of the mirror effect, where people who spent large amounts of time together started to mimic each others facial expressions, and so started to look similar. He wanted that. “We’re in room 203.”

…

…

…

She cried whenever Sherlock left the room, and she giggled in delight whenever he performed one of his deductions.

“Careful with her, Sherlock sweetheart,” Mary called, rubbing cream onto her stretch marks “Mind her head.”

“I know, I know!” Sherlock grumbled, rocking Aria gently in his arms, as she gurgled happily. Sherlock was convinced that Aria liked him best. “I’m gonna teach you to observe, Ari,” he promised, taking her to the window, and pointing to the people down below “At one glance you’re gonna know everything, I promise.” He spent the rest of the day playing the violin for her, measuring the size of her fingers.

“How are my pearls?” Mary murmured, yawning, she hoisted Sherlock onto her hip, and cradled Aria in her other arm. Aria and Sherlock were currently sharing a room (Sherlock was slowly coming round to the idea of a bigger house). Mary set Sherlock in his bed, and Aria in the cradle, tucking them both in. “Your father fell asleep downstairs,”

“He’s been tired,” Sherlock yawned, snuggling further into the pillows “Been bragging about Aria and I to everyone he meets.”

“Oi,” Mary ruffled his hair and Sherlock laughed

“He brags about you too, mum,”

Mum.

That had come later, after months of hearing John call her that for Aria’s benefit, it seemed to have sunk it. And seeing Mary cry tears of joy hadn’t been bad either. She’d given Sherlock extra chocolate cake that night, but John had stolen half of it.

…

…

…

“This would be your room,” John murmured, hand steady on Sherlock’s shoulder as they looked around the empty house in the quaint village. Sherlock, aged 6, was glued to his phone.

“The crime rate is _just_ high enough, and we’re close enough that Lestrade could come over.”

“The room, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up. It was nice, big enough, with large windows that splayed out to the greenery that surrounded the village. “Where’s yours?”

“Upstairs.” Mary smiled, walking in with Aria in her arms “And Aria’s right across the hall.”

“So you like it?” Mycroft asked, appearing out of nowhere, after rapping on the door with the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock resisted the urge to bound towards Mycroft. He missed his brother, he missed their conversations and their games of operations. Mycroft seemed to have the same feeling for he scooped down and picked Sherlock up. “Nephew-mine,” he murmured, much to John’s pleasure, and Sherlock flicked Mycroft’s temple

“Gaining weight?”

“Losing it.”

“Is your new definition of ‘losing it’ gaining it?”

“Sherlock.” Mary frowned at him and Sherlock grumbled to himself.

“Anyway, I came here to discuss something with all of you. Am I correct in saying that Aria no longer drinks breast milk?”

John looked to Mary who blinked, completely bewildered “Um…yes? She drinks formula now.”

“Good. Is Mary aware of the de-aging device?”

“No.” John and Sherlock chimed, and Mycroft smiled

“Well, I was simply going to suggest that once you moved here, I…fixed everything for you. None of yours pasts are particularly…reputable. Including you, Mary,” Mary nodded, she and John had faced that hurdle a long time ago, they were both over it. “I was going to suggest that I deaged John and Mary to thirty-two years old, Sherlock back to four, and keep Aria the way she is, you could start again. A completely new lease on life. The Watsons in Oxford, enrol properly in school-“

“You have the technology to do that?” Mary blurted, before blushing “It’s just- these stretch marks-“

John wrapped an arm around her, and looked to Mycroft “It’s a lovely idea. But what about our records-“

“Please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes “He practically _is_ the British Government.”

Mary couldn’t quite contain her delight. The very idea was wonderful. To be younger again, to rid herself of some of the physical scars from stages of her life she was desperate to forget. To be young with John, her John, with a four year old and a one year old, and a new start in a village, and before she knew what she was doing, she was hugging Mycroft and crying. He patted her back awkwardly “You’ll come to visit won’t you, Mycroft?”

“I’m looking to retire in a few years,” he smiled “There’s a Diogenes club in the village, I might find myself a nice place around here. Visit my niece and nephew.” Sherlock head butted Mycroft’s neck like a nanny goat, and Mycroft squeezed him tight. “You’ll be seeing me nearly every day.”

John laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me folks!
> 
>  
> 
> Life's been hectic and got in the way and I'm sad that I didn't get to finish this the way I would have liked, but thank you all for sticking by me. 
> 
> I love you all dearly xxxx

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you liked it :)


End file.
